


Blow away with this new sun

by rightfullymine



Series: Blue Skies [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 10:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12034164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightfullymine/pseuds/rightfullymine
Summary: Five years after the War for the Dawn, one afternoon in King's Landing, the Lady of Winterfell and the King consort discuss politics and family matters.The Queen makes an appearance.





	Blow away with this new sun

“Daeron! Don’t put dirt in your mouth.”

The sun is high in the sky and the heat so strong today that it seems to reverberate from the clearing they have stopped at to play. Jon wipes perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. And he’s only wearing a fine tunic and linen breeches.

Ever since Daeron learned to walk, albeit a bit wobbly still, Jon has taken to bringing him and Rheagal out of the Red Keep, just outside King’s Landing, on one of the paths north of the city that lead to forests and bush. On lovely summer afternoons like this one, where he can spare the time away from his royal duties, he finds great joy in spending time with his dragon and son, watching them interact and playing with both. The carefree hours help centre him when politics and court schemes trouble his mind, help him remember why he is doing what he is doing, what he fought for all that time ago.

Daeron sits on the dirt some feet away from him. He’s long discarded the thin tunic Missandei dressed him in this morning and is now naked but for linen nappy, soiled from crawling on the ground so long. He has been entertaining a silly game that he finds hilarious, picking up fistfuls of dirt from the ground and plastering it on Rheagal’s snout. The big, mighty dragon, one of the two fiercest beasts of the realm, lies sprawled next to him, green wings around his body, and silently endures this silly torture, only occasionally blowing puffs of warm air from his gigantic nostrils to signal his amusement and watching with sleepy eyes how the silver curls on Daeron’s little head fly around his face. The boy laughs hysterically every time this happens.

At the sound of his father’s voice, Daeron momentarily stops what he’s doing, turns around towards him and gives a cheeky, toothless grin. Then, he bows his head to look at his hands as if startled to find they’re his, and puts them in his mouth to take the dirt out of it.

Jon sighs, exasperated, and does not envy the nurse who’s going to give his son a bath this evening.

He hears a chuckle from beside him and turns around to find his sister, the Lady of Winterfell, mid-giggle.

“It is amazing to see such an awe-inspiring beast at the mercy of a one-year-old chubby boy,” Sansa smiles at Jon.

Her eyes sparkle with amusement and her hair, bright red normally, is the colour of raging fire every time the sunshine hits it in such a way. Her cheeks are slightly tanned from repeated exposure, and she must have had enough of the South’s constant heat, Jon suspects.

“Rheagal can smell the dragon in his blood. He recognizes him as one of his own,” Jon explains, and for a moment he looks back to baby and dragon in the clearing. He marvels at the simplicity with which those words have just left his mouth, remembers a time when he wanted nothing more than to purge his own blood, to get the dragon out of him, to never have known to look for the dragon in himself.

Sansa must feel the direction his thoughts are going in and fixes him with a pointed stare.

“And can he smell the wolf?” she asks, with a boldness that years of hardships have no doubt taught her.

Jon looks back at her and holds her steady gaze. He thinks she’s looking for reassurance, to know that even if things have changed and years have passed, even if they live leagues away from each other now, she belongs with him, with this child. And they belong with her. That they are family. A pack.

“Always,” Jon replies, and takes her hand in his. His eyes fill with sudden tears but the spontaneous smile that blossoms on his lips at the sight of his sister, alive and healthy next to him, drives them away.

He wishes he could travel to Winterfell more. Some days, he wakes up in his big, warm bed in his royal chambers, the slants of sunshine coming from the window already warm on his and his wife’s limbs and he irrationally wishes for the biting cold of the North. He finds himself growing restless at times with a bone-deep melancholy for the places of his childhood, for Winterfell’s tall towers and hot springs. But most of all, he regrets being away from his siblings, and battles with the unyeilding feeling of having left them alone to rule a land that’s home, sure, but hard and gruff like the ice that covers it.

He can feel himself growing uneasy even now, so he shakes his head slightly to clear his mind of such dangerously wandering thoughts.

No matter. However much he misses the North, he could never, and never would, leave King’s Landing. And he knows, better than anybody perhaps, that Sansa is the best ruler the North could have, much more skilled at political strategy than he is, much more prepared to rein in the many complicated, fickle families of the North.

“Are you sure you don’t need more men? We could send a garrison of 100 soldiers, say, and I could talk to Grey Worm, maybe he could- “

Sansa squeezes his hand to stop him. The look on her face is tender, whereas it would have been resentful five years ago.

“I don’t need men from King’s Landing, Jon, and certainly would not deprive My Queen of her first general,” she sighs, and pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I can manage the Wildlings between our troops and Lord Manderly’s, if need be, but I pray it does not come to that. And rest assured that I’ll ask for help when I am in need of it.”

The North has had troubles with the Wildlings recently. Now that the threat of the Long Night is gone and the lands beyond the Wall are safe again, many Wildlings have been moving back north and demand to be free of Winterfell’s rule. The northern families aren’t taking well to this development and there has been tension ever since.

Both Jon and Sansa are adamant that the situation be solved without spilling a drop of blood. They have seen enough of it to last several lifetimes.

“And it’s not the Wildlings I’m worried about,” she says, and her eyes land on the child playing in the grass. “The lords have been talking about succession, I am told.”

Jon whips his head around so fast he might have sprained his neck. He looks hard at Sansa, trying to gauge if she is playing with him, or if indeed this is a concern of hers.

“I might have to look for a husband. Perhaps I’ll give a ball and you and Daenerys can help me choose a handsome knight.”

Jon scratches his beard in irritation. This ability of Sansa’s to talk light-heartedly about serious matters drives him up the wall. He understands it’s an armour she built for herself, to shield herself from the unspeakable things she had to endure in the past, a barrier for unimaginable things that may still come in the future. It still makes his skin prickle with the threat of a violence that’s not being dealt with as it should. Damn his serious disposition.

He is also taken aback by the notion that his sister has been pondering about succession matters. God only knows the Small Council has talked extensively about the future of Winterfell – as they tend to do with every tiny issue from every corner of the world – but they had dropped the matter fairly quickly, both because it’s not a pressing one for now and because Jon and Tyrion have no intention of forcing Sansa into any sort of agreement she doesn’t wholeheartedly want to be a part of.

Once he fixes his eyes on her face, he says, “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do.” And he hopes that she hears in his voice how much he means these words.

She doesn’t seem to be able to get serious about this. Or maybe it’s just an impression, maybe she’s been serious about it all along. He finds he can seldom tell with the women in his life.

“But I do,” Sansa replies. “The North needs to be ruled by a Stark. You and I both know that. And sooner than we’d like there are not going to be any Starks left. I need an heir, whether I like it or not. And better to choose than to be chosen, don’t you think?” And she has the nerve to smirk. Gods give him strength.

He knows she’s right, of course. He thinks it ironic how those who fight for freedom can seldom enjoy those freedoms for themselves.

“Unless the King in the North is secretly coveting Winterfell for one of his little dragons.”

This time, he bursts out in a loud laugh that has Daeron momentarily stop his game and look at his father.

The idea is so ridiculous even Jon Snow can laugh at it, he thinks. He can’t imagine how a Targaryen child could go on to sit at Winterfell and rule. The kingdoms are at peace, sure, and the North recognizes the Dragon Queen as their own now, but if there’s one thing he’s learned in the five years of Daenerys’s peaceful rule is that peace is brittle. And the North remembers.

“Would that they could,” he replies once his laughter subsides. “Much work is yet to be done to mend the spirits.”

“Aye,” she nods, “and is this not the reason I’m here?” and she gives him a searching look. She has swiftly but smoothly changed the subject. Damn, she’s good.

Jon knows this is what she has wanted to talk about ever since she asked to join him and Daeron on their afternoon adventure. She wants to make sure he is okay with what they have decided.

“She is too young,” is his stubborn reply. He thinks he’s said the words a hundred times in the past fortnight. But he doesn’t care, he’d repeat them a hundred more if it meant his baby girl could remain in King’s Landing.

Sansa has come all the way down from Winterfell to escort Rhaenyra to the North. The crown princess is going to spend two months in Winterfell, for fostering purposes. She will read in Winterfell’s library, be taught about the ways of the North by the Maester, and have sparring lessons just outside the Great Keep, with the North’s most promising boys.

The idea was Tyrion’s, of course. The princess needs to learn the ways of the realm, and what better place to start than at Winterfell, her father’s home. _Isn’t she a wolf herself?_ He’d reasoned. _And it would be a great gesture of good faith towards the North, Your Grace_. To show that the royal family trusts them with the safety and education of their most precious.

The queen had raised fiery hell that afternoon, outraged at the suggestion they use her daughter, t _heir firstborn daughter_ , as a political bargaining chip. But that same night, when they lay naked and spent in each other’s arms, Daenerys had confessed to Jon that she had thought about this even before Tyrion’s suggestion. That indeed it was a smart move, politically inevitable, though unspeakable if it meant Rhaenyra had to be taken away from them. He had kissed her tears one by one, and that night they had stroked each other’s flesh with a passion that foreshadowed their loss already.

And so preparations got underway. It was decided that the princess is to be accompanied in her journey and for the entire duration of her stay by her aunt Arya, who will take a temporary leave from her duties here in the Capital, and by the Lady Missandei. She will also travel with a small entourage of armed men sworn to her protection. But no dragons. And no king and queen with her.

If Jon puts aside his all-consuming dread at the impending separation from his daughter, which he can hardly do, he can see how great this journey could be for her. Can even be a tiny bit thrilled at the idea of his own flesh and blood sleeping in his childhood room, reading his favourite books and swimming in the lake just outside the Ghostwood, where he and Robb spent many an afternoon as boys.

 “She is more than excited to go. She will have a wonderful time, Jon.”

Jon sighs. He knows that. What he feels, though, is not rational. He doesn’t know how to explain that the idea of not having his daughter around, to kiss and teach, to talk to and raise in the air, is so awful he lies awake at night with the terrible dread of it.

“She’s never been farther than King’s Landing all her life. And Winterfell is a long way away,” is all he says.

“Winterfell is where she was born.”

In a storm, like her mother, shortly after the War for the Dawn.

“And with us is where she belongs.”

His voice is hard and his sister recoils at the sound of it. He didn’t mean to snap at her. He bows his chin in a silent apology but never removes his eyes from Sansa’s. He wants her to know the depth of his fear, what’s at stake here.

Sansa looks at him for a moment longer, then her eyes turn soft and she nods. “I’ll protect her with my life. No harm will come to her, Jon, I promise you.”

He cannot talk, he thinks, for he doesn’t trust his voice not to break. He just nods his head and squeezes her warm hand between his. This promise will have to do.

While they have been talking, his son has left Rheagal nodding off in the grass and is now walking on unsteady legs towards Jon. When he is about to get to his destination, his legs seem to give way under him and his face scrunches up in the ghost of a cry at the idea of a potential fall. But Jon holds his arms out towards the child and encourages him, “Come on, son. You’ve almost done it. I’m right here.”

And Daeron must hear the strength in his father’s voice, for he clenches his tiny fists at his sides and makes the last two steps to his father. Jon takes him in his arms and raises him to his lap, grinning and kissing the little boy’s silver hair, so like his mother’s, not minding the dirt that fills his mouth at the gesture. Daeron grins in return and drools all over his father’s tunic.

“Aren’t you a brave little wolf?” sing-songs Sansa, smiling. Daeron is clearly loving all this praise and reaches out a chubby hand in return to pet his aunt’s hair. Then, not satisfied with the distance between them, he moves wobbly from his father’s lap to his aunt’s. Sansa settles him down against her chest and starts stroking his hair while he plays with the skirt of her dress.

“Our lord father would be so proud, Jon,” he hears her say, and for a moment his breath stops in his lungs. He feels like he should give her a reply but hot tears are flooding his throat and he doesn’t trust himself to speak a word. He knows Sansa has considered him as her own brother for a long time now, but rare have been the times when she’s acknowledged it verbally. Mentions of their father touch those dark corners of their hearts and prick at never-healing scars.

“I –“

“Listen to me, I know he would. If he could see how far you’ve come. What you are doing for the realm, what you’re doing for your family. If he could see this perfect boy here…” she has to pause then, voice cracked, and takes a couple of seconds to breathe. “He would know all his sacrifices were well worth it.”

A single tear makes its way down her rosy cheek but Daeron, sensing his aunt’s distress, reaches up and kisses it away with a wet kiss.

Jon does not speak. The loss of Ned was a long time ago, but Jon knows that some days it burns bright like a living thing in his sisters’ eyes, in his own heart. Sometimes the memory is also sweet, though, and inspiring, and he finds that the presence of his children can be a soothing balm for the pain of it, not only for him but for his sisters, too.

He looks at Sansa now, and gives her a long look, that he hopes tells her, _thank you, this means the world_.

The moment is interrupted by the thumping sound of Rheagal, moving his giant wings to lift himself off the ground and circling the clearing in excitement. The dragon screeches in the air for a long moment and flies away from them. Jon knows who’s coming even before hearing the horse’s hooves on the ground, even before seeing her.

Daenerys appears on the far side of the clearing, on her white horse. Her silver hair is tied in elegant braids behind her head and she is wearing the same pale blue dress he helped lace up on her body this morning. The colour of her dress makes her violet eyes shine even brighter than usual, and he finds himself wondering what the people of the realm must feel in her presence, if he, her husband, finds himself overwhelmed by the sight of her even after all these years.

The babe in Sansa’s lap has seen his mother by now and is squirming to be let down. When Sansa lowers the boy to the ground he sprints toward the queen and she has a brief moment to dismount from the horse before she too runs towards him and lifts him up in the air. Daenerys coos at her son and kisses his face wherever she can reach, making the boy giggle madly. The sound of their laughter carries in the wind and Jon thinks he’s never heard a more beautiful sound.

After adjusting the boy on her hip, Daenerys makes her way to the two. For a split second, she looks Jon in the eye and gives him a small, loving smile. He knows this is all the greeting he is going to get from his wife.

The King and Queen do not touch in the presence of other people. This is borne of habit, from a time when their union was considered by some as a threat to the safety of the realm, when factions in the North believed him to have bent the knee in exchange for a place in her bed. As a reaction, they maintained distance in public, to protect their authority.

Now, he thinks, a moderate amount of affection in public would not be frowned upon, their hold on the kingdom is strong and their marriage is admired by all and sung in all the new songs. Nevertheless, they keep their distance still when surrounded by others, to protect themselves, to shield their love from the greedy eyes of onlookers. Though, the Queen’s Hand claims their efforts are all in vain and even the dimmest of idiots could see right through them the second their eyes meet across a room.

Daenerys fixes her gaze on Sansa and gives her a bright, beautiful smile.

“Sansa,” she greets.

Sansa smiles back to his wife, “Your grace,” she replies.

She does not curtsy, for the Queen asked her a long time ago not to when it’s just the two of them or their family. Though Sansa has not lost her sense of propriety and hardly ever calls her sister-in-law by her given name. Daenerys takes a step forward and embraces the Lady of Winterfell in a one-armed hug, the babe at her hip sandwiched between the two.

“Has Jon been bribing you to take him along with you to the North?” the Queen asks, and her face is full of mirth. She gives him a cheeky glance and he grunts in response.

Sansa laughs, looking between the two. “I believe he was about to surrender Ghost in exchange for a ride,” she teases and Jon would wear and affronted expression at the blatant lie if a grin wasn’t splitting his face in two.

“Very funny,” he mutters.

“It _is_ a bit funny,” replies Daenerys. She has that glint in her eyes and her chin is high in the air, like she’s challenging him to rebut her. Knows he’d never mock her in front of his sister, or anyone else. He’d never show her weaknesses.

He tries to give her a neutral look, but knows he is failing. He finds her irresistible like this, their child on her hip, her face flushed from the horse ride and dirt on her neck from where she smothered their son in kisses.

For the thousandth time since he’s known her, he wishes they were alone.

“How did the meeting go?” inquires Sansa, unaware of the silent conversation that’s going on between her King and Queen. Or maybe to put a stop to it.

Daenerys’s face falls for a second, before she catches herself and plasters a serene smile on her lips. “Tiresome,” she replies with a sigh.

His sister seems satisfied with the answer. But Jon can read his wife better than anyone and knows there is much more frustration behind that sigh than she’s showing. Besides giving audience to the people, keeping peace in the realm and ruling the lands from Eastwatch to Sunspear, the Queen, sometimes accompanied by the King and her Hand, has been recently holding secret, informal meetings to test the waters among the lords of the realm to change the succession law. So that Rhaenyra, their _miracle daughter_ , can one day rule as queen, just like her mother.

 Today’s meeting must have been disappointing and fruitless. They still have a long way ahead of them.

“I’ve come to fetch you two,” continues the queen, gloomy thoughts of politics already out of her mind. “Rhaenyra is beside herself with excitement. We ought to go back now if we want to make it in time for the feast.”

She looks at the child in her arms for a second, then at Jon. “And this boy is in dire need of a bath.”

“Aye, he is.” is Jon’s smiling answer.

Sansa nods her agreement, and ruffles Daeron’s unruly curls. The boy smiles at his aunt and stretches his arms towards her to signal he wants her to carry him. Daenerys carefully hands him over to her and the Lady of Winterfell starts making her way out of the clearing and back to the Keep.

Jon and Daenerys linger back.

“Is she really happy to go?” he doesn’t have to explain who he’s referring to. She knows.

“She is. She’s already made a list of all the things she must see and do in the North.” She gives him a kind of rueful smile, one that has his skin itching with the need to take her in his arms here and now. He cradles her face with his rough hand, the contact with her soft skin sending shivers down his spine. She immediately leans against his hand.

“And are you? Happy about this?” She just has to say the words and he will cancel all plans of Rhaenyra’s travels, diplomacy be damned.

She laughs at this. “I am happy as long as she’s safe. And we’re just a dragon ride away.”

He caresses the apple of her cheek with his thumb and she turns her head around to kiss the inside of his wrist. He thinks the feast tonight cannot end soon enough.

“Let us head back,” she whispers.

They turn towards the path that leads back to the city. Sansa and Daeron are ahead of them, going down the road. The sun setting on the horizon transforms the colours of their hair in the distance in beautiful, shimmering halos.

Daenerys goes to untie the horse she rode on the way here but doesn’t mount, instead holding him by the reins. Jon approaches his wife and they start walking towards their city.

After a couple of steps, Jon takes her hand and intertwines their fingers together. He can picture in his mind the long, imposing shadows of them the sun is casting behind them.


End file.
